Gunslinger
by jayeffkay
Summary: ACTIVE! AU, AH. In 1940's New York, Edward Cullen is a professional hitman, who has been assigned to a rather unusual case. His job: keep prima ballerina, Bella Swan, alive, without her being aware of his presence. Is that too much to ask? ExB, AxJ, EmxR
1. Peter Piper

"N-n-no, for the love of god, p-p-lease, d-don-don't!" Peter pleaded as he scrambled backwards on his rear, propelling himself frantically with both hands and his one good leg. The other was a revolting, twisted mess, with a broken bone causing his pants to tent halfway between his knee and ankle.

The rain fell harder now, but it made no difference to Peter as he continued his warped crab crawl away from his assailant, unknowingly cornering himself in the dark, dank alley. Heavy drops echoed on the cheap metal fire escapes that lined both buildings comprising the alley; the uneven ground allowed puddles of varying depth to form. Peter's hand slipped and he fell back, scraping his already bloodied forearm against the pavement.

"W-what do y-you want? M-m-money? I c-c-can g-g-get you m-mon-money!" Peter hated himself for stuttering right then – the five years of speech therapy, the thousands of dollars spent creating the confident, composed facade that allowed him to run the Williams & Wright head office – all of it for nothing. He couldn't even beg for his life.

"P-please, please - "

"Shut up, you stuttering piece of shit. This isn't about you."

"Then wh-why…why…"

"I said _shut up_."

A brutal blow to the side of the head, and Peter's vision was now washed in crimson. He continued his escape attempt, but felt that any movement he was making now was barely more than a tremble.

Another blow – with a lead pipe, it felt like – and Peter's elbow buckled out from under him. He was helpless now.

Against the light of the moon his attacker was just a silhouette, raining down killing blows without so much as a sound. Using the last of his strength, Peter turned his head in the direction from which the violence came. When he spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper.

"Why…"

"It's not personal, mate. It's business."

And with a final blow, Peter Dossier would never make it home that night, or ever again.


	2. Jack of all trades

**AN: Stephanie Meyer owns everything Twilight. **

* * *

Edward wiped the still-fresh blood from the pipe onto Peter's suit jacket. Crumpled in the corner of an alley between a rub n' tug and a landromat, odds are that the body wouldn't be found for at least 48 hours. That is, if Peter's secretary was up to scratch. As a secretary she probably wouldn't file a missing persons report for a couple days, but as an occasional lover and a frequent spender on Peter Dossier's expense account, there could be one as early as tomorrow.

Marching down East 56th Street with swift, confident strides, Edward reached into his leather duster and pulled out a thin 2"x5" notepad.

**_Jackie Q. Pinkerton_**

**_Terrance Godfrey_**

**_Hans F. Planck_**

**_Nathan Orion_**

**Peter Dossier**

Crossing out Peter's name, Edward reminisced about the month's previous jobs. Jackie had been interesting. He had been so fixated on finding out what the Q stood for, that he'd actually taken her out for dinner beforehand. He picked her up at a bar the night before, charmed her into a frenzy, and made a date for the following evening. He offed her on the way home from the restaurant.

Queenie. Ridiculous fucking name.

Heading over to Madison Avenue, Edward was ready to collect his retainer. This month's list hadn't been particularly challenging, especially considering some of the projects he'd undertaken in the past.

Edward walked straight past the building numbered 150 – an innocuous townhouse sandwiched between a corner shop and a nail salon. He stopped only at the telephone booth on the end of the block. He picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear, neither expecting nor receiving a dial tone. He inserted a quarter, dialed a random string of seven digits, and began to carry on a one-sided conversation with himself while subtly checking out the scene.

Three young black men stood on the opposite corner of the street, too immersed in their own dealings to be concerned with Edward's. Coming over the slight hill two hundred meters to his left was a young woman, barefoot, dangling a pair of heels from her right hand. She wove slightly as she made her way down the street – drunk. Edward hoped the men across the street wouldn't notice.

With a last quick sweep of the area, Edward hung up the phone. Every Thursday Edward would make a fake phone call at this payphone that hadn't functioned as long as he could remember, and every Thursday Edward would use the fake call as an opportunity to case 150 Madison Avenue.

With a quick turn, Edward walked briskly back the way he had come, this time turning into the short walkway leading up to the front door of his destination. Hopping up the grey stone steps with speed and grace, he pulled open the screeching storm door and turned the knob of the heavier metal door inside. It turned and opened easily, and Edward allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He was on time.

There was only one thing his boss liked more than money, and that was punctuality. Edward remembered the first time he had been late for a meeting – it was the first and last time that mistake would ever be made. Shuddering at the memory, Edward stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him with a

_Click. Edward tried again. Click. The knob still wouldn't turn. It was January – it was possible that the workings of the lock had frozen. Edward jiggled and pushed the knob with frustration that quickly turned to desperation when he realized that the door was, indeed, locked. _

"_What the fuck? I told Carlisle yesterday that I'd be here at midnight." _

_The storm door leaned uncomfortably against his back, and he could feel the handle digging into him, even though the thick leather of his coat. He stood still, staring at the knob, as if willing it to turn with his mind. _

_The cold was beginning to get to him. He hadn't noticed it until now because he had been moving, but he vaguely remembered reading in the paper that the city was expecting record-breaking low temperatures for the week. _

_Edward's "appointment" that night had taken longer than anticipated because of traffic – fucking _traffic_ – and he had had to run most of the way here, even foregoing his routine phone-call-slash-search of the area. _

_One last time he tried turning the unrelenting knob before huffing with frustration and turning to bound down the front steps. He paced along the short and narrow walkway anxiously, reaching inside his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply, pacing all the while. Edward checked his watch. 12:09. What the hell was going on?_

_Flicking his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground, Edward hurdled up the steps once again. He wrenched open the storm door. His fingertips had barely grazed the doorknob when the door was pulled open before him. Carlisle stood in the doorway, a look of amusement on his face. _

"_Edward," he breathed, with deadly calm. "Do come in, you look quite…cold."_

_Carlisle's stillness made Edward uneasy. His words were just a touch too measured, too polite. This was not to say that Carlisle lacked manners or intelligence – on the contrary, he was easily the smartest and most well-kept man Edward had ever met. But something about the way he was acting tonight put Edward on high alert. _

"_Cold's right, it's fifty below out there," Edward joked, trying to lighten the mood while getting a feel for the situation. _

_Carlisle stared at Edward intently and remained silent for several seconds after the young man had finished speaking. Turning, Carlisle walked into the sitting room of the small, yet lavishly furnished townhouse, and took a seat on one of the many lounge chairs. _

"_Come then, Edward. Warm yourself by the fire."_

_Forget cold – Edward was sweating now. He and Carlisle always carried out their transactions in the basement, never in the sitting room. Edward had never so much set foot in it before, and here he was, being delivered an express invitation. He awkwardly meandered over to an overstuffed leather sofa._

"Sit, Edward."

_Edward sat. _

_Several terse moments passed between them, as Edward ran through a million possibilities in his brain. Then, suddenly, Carlisle stood, and began walking slowly back and forth in front of the fireplace. _

_With his hands clasped behind his back, Carlisle's face remained rigid and unreadable. Just as Edward thought he couldn't take any more of the silence, Carlisle spoke. _

"_Edward, what time is it?"_

_Stupefied, Edward snapped his head up to look the older man in the eye. Carlisle now stood as still as a statue, framed by the blazing fire, expression as stony as before. He wasn't fucking around. _

_Slowly, Edward looked at his watch. "It's 12:16, Carlisle."_

"_12:16, very good, very good," Carlisle nodded, recommencing his pacing in front of the fire. "And at what time did we agree to rendezvous this evening?"_

"_Midnight, but -"_

"_And at what time did you arrive?"_

"_12:09, but - "_

"_Ah, now, Edward, do you see the error of your ways? Our meeting was for midnight and you arrived at 12:09. Actually, it was 12:06, but you insisted on having a smoke." His tone turned frigid. "I do not like to be kept waiting, Edward."_

_Edward stood at this comment, advancing on the man who must have been pushing 50, and yet could crumble a man half his age and twice his size – all the while passing for 30. Now face to face with his employer, Edward spoke quickly. "The Mortimer job got…complicated at the last minute and I had to think quick. Finished the job by hand in his bathroom. Clean-up was no easy-"_

_Before Edward could finish his defense, Carlisle had snatched a length of pipe from the side pocket of his smoking jacket, and bashed Edward on his left temple with impressive, yet controlled force._

_Edward crumpled to the ground unconscious, the small gash on his head bleeding liberally. Carlisle leaned down and wiped the blood from the pipe onto Edward's shirt and walked out of the room. _

_***_

_Edward woke the next morning, head pounding, slightly dazed, and puzzled by his surroundings. Last night's events came rushing back as Edward rose unsteadily, gingerly touching his head wound, which was now caked with dried blood. As he made it to his feet, a note that had been resting on his chest fluttered to the floor. _

Cleanliness is next to godliness, but punctuality is the soul of business. Don't keep me waiting again, Edward.

_Below this message lay five new names. Five strangers for whom Edward's acquaintance would be the last they would ever make. He was grateful for these names because they meant food, warmth and most importantly_

"Security? Have you gone mad? I'm a professional hit man, not some sort of, of bouncer!" Edward spit out the last word with distaste. "Carlisle, you know I'm grateful. I'm grateful for everything you've ever done for me, but I just can't take this job!"

"You can and you will, Edward."

"Please," Edward whispered, on the verge of begging, "Please Carlisle, just give me a list. Give me a list like always and we'll pretend this never came up. We can pretend it never happened. Find something else and I'll never breathe a word of it to anyone. Just not me, Carlisle. Not me."

"You're the only one capable of pulling it off, Edward." Carlisle chuckled. "Believe me, you weren't my first choice either, but I went through my rather – extensive – list of employees, and yours was the only name that fit."

"Carlisle, why? How? How did you come across a job like this? This isn't your style, it isn't - "

Wrong move. Edward had overstepped his boundary and Carlisle turned on him, eyes blazing.

"Since when do you find yourself in a position to question my authority, Edward? Or my sources, for that matter? You will take this job and you will complete it in a professional manner."

"But Carlisle, I-I've never done security before."

"Then I think it's about time you expanded your horizons."

The was an unquestionable note of finality in Carlisle's statement, and Edward knew that any further protestation would not turn out in his favor. With a look of pure malice, Edward violently snatched the piece of paper from Carlisle's outstretched hand and stormed out of the house. Not until he reached the safety of the lobby of his apartment building did he dare look at the name neatly penned on the sheet.

Isabella Swan.

Shit. This broad was going to be the end of his career – if not his life.

* * *

**I'm going to post the first couple chapters of this all in a row, so that the ball gets rolling. Please review, and let me know what you think!**


	3. London Calling

10…11…12…14. His floor. Why they skipped the thirteenth floor, he just couldn't understand. It was clear that the fourteenth floor was really just the thirteenth, so why the charade? No matter, he was the only one up here – the penthouse suite.

His penthouse, he felt, was a declaration of status, and an affirmation that he had succeeded in life, regardless of his chosen field.

He never wanted to become a pro gun. He thought that occupations like this only existed in films and in the drugstore mystery novels that he so despised. Edward strode over to a hanging mirror, and placed his keys on the small table beneath it. He reluctantly looked up, afraid of what he would see. His speculations were bang on – he looked like hell.

Shrugging off his jacket, Edward noticed he had dark circles under his eyes that contrasted sharply with his overly pale skin. That's what you get for working nights, he thought. Not much time in the sun. And with winter coming on fast, it didn't look like he was going to be catching the rays anytime soon.

Licking his parched lips, he ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. This fact he was less critical of, as he had never been able to tame his locks into any remotely respectable style. Carlisle had kept him from many jobs that would lead him to a more formal setting as Edward would be spotted in an instant, he said. Regardless, his copper mane, flecked with blond and chestnut streaks, was getting too long, and Edward made a mental note to make a trip over to his barber. Tousling his hair back, he checked out his chin, covered in two days' worth of stubble. Peter had gotten one good punch in before…well, before. Peter had been wearing a ring – not a wedding band, thank goodness, just a class ring, and it had caught Edward square on the jaw. It wouldn't leave a mark, but Edward would have to refrain from shaving for another few days to allow it to heal.

Damnit, he cursed inwardly. He should have shaved this afternoon, but decided instead on ten more minutes of sleep. He hoped the scratch would heal quickly – he didn't want to look homeless.

He exhaled deeply as he walked towards the kitchen, flipping light switches along the way in order to illuminate his spacious apartment. Looking into the fridge was a stark reminder of the life he led; all that it contained was three containers of leftover Chinese takeout, baking soda, and a bottle of champagne he had been given as a gift. From who, he couldn't recall at the moment. Probably not a client.

Edward pulled out the white cardboard containers and lined them up on the nearby counter. He reached overhead into a cabinet for a plate, and rummaged around in the cutlery drawer for a set of chopsticks. He hated eating ethnic food with a fork.

Piling the assortment of dishes onto the plate, Edward thought back as to how he had become so proficient with chopsticks.

"The Mai Tong job, summer of '39," he muttered to himself, a small smile dancing across his lips. As he distractedly picked at the cold noodles, he scanned the kitchen. Immaculately clean, of course. He was hardly home enough to create much of a mess.

Edward carried his plate into the living room, and made himself comfortable in his favorite recliner. Balancing his food in his lap, he reached forward to grab this morning's newspaper off the coffee table and shook it open.

"What's the state of the world today?" He mumbled into his food.

Flipping past the blatant pro-war propaganda that graced the front page of every AmMikean publication these days, Edward turned to the World News section.

Two weeks prior, a riot had broken out in the main square of the town of Tecate, Mexico. A celebration in honor of St. Martin de Porres was taking place when a group of anti-Christian radicals stormed the festivities, armed with large automatic weapons. Mass hysteria ensued. St. Martin de Porres was a Christian martyr who devoted his entire life to

"_Christ Almighty, what the fuck have you done?"_

"_Carlisle, listen, I'm sorry, okay? I'm _sorry_. It wasn't supposed to happen like this."_

"_I give you a simple job and you've gone and fucked it all to hell." _

"_I didn't mean to, Carlisle, it just, it just happened!"_

"_You mean you just _happened_ to have sex with your mark's daughter into his own bed, and then get caught in the act?"_

"_Yeah, yeah, that's exactly it!"_

"_And then you just _happened_ to panic, stab your mark to death – leaving a blood trail a mile wide – and the turn on his daughter too?"_

"_She was a witness, Carlisle."_

"_I'm fully aware she was a witness, Mike, but you went entirely against protocol. Cops are swarming the estate as we speak. They'll have you pinned within the hour."_

"_No they won't, Carlisle, not if you help me, not if you hide me! Hide me, Carlisle! I can't get caught! I-I'm young!"_

"_Exactly. Young and dispensable. I'm sorry, Mike. I wash my hands of you."_

_Edward was witnessing this exchange from fifteen feet away on the streets of east London. The fresh market served as an excellent distraction. With all the yelling, haggling and thievery, no one would ever cast a second glance at the two arguing men. No one but Edward, that is. He had always had an eye for detail, and noticed things that people often missed. And so now, nineteen year old Edward inconspicuously leaned against a market stall, eavesdropping on what was proving to be a very interesting exchange. _

"_Goodbye, Mike – and good luck," the older man said with a sad, but stern smile. He turned slowly, and began to make his way from the small nook in which he and Mike had met in the frenzy of the marketplace. _

_Edward shifted his attention to the younger man now, Mike. He had an intense look in his eyes – pain – but it quickly shifted to extreme hatred. Mike reached into his coat and pulled out a short dagger, still covered with blood, supposedly from the "mark" he and the older man, Carlisle, were discussing. _

_Pulse racing, Edward snapped his head to look at Carlisle. He was still a good ten feet from the safety of public view, and in his slow, trusting gate, he wouldn't make it there in time. With a guttural cry, Mike sprinted towards Carlisle, waving the dagger maniacally in front of him. _

_Without thinking, Edward bolted from his position against the stall and rushed towards the offender. He got there just as Carlisle was turning around, eyes wide, horrified at the betrayal he was witnessing. Carlisle raised his hands in defense as Mike lunged forward, making his strike. An instant before he would have made contact, a flash of black leather flew in from the side, tackling Mike to the ground._

"_What in the hell…" Carlisle muttered. _

_The two figures on the ground wrestled for control of the dagger and the situation. One was clad in garishly vibrant garb, and one in black on black, which caused his rust-colored hair to stand out even more. _

_For a moment, Carlisle felt sympathy for this would-be hero; despite what he said earlier, Mike was one of his best men. This would be the last fight in which this unfortunately gallant stranger would partake. _

_Carlisle's opinion changed not a moment later when the black-clad boy – or man, he could not decide which – came out on top after the scuffle, and proceeded to punch Mike repeatedly in the face. _

"_Perhaps I was mistaken…"_

_The stranger paused for a moment, and Mike used this opportunity to throw his attacker off of him, and scrambled to his feet. The dagger lay strewn at the back of the passageway, temporarily forgotten. The two men now squared off and were slowly circling each other, poised for attack _

_Mike moved first – a swift kick perhaps just an inch too high. The newcomer blocked it effortlessly, throwing Mike's leg back at him, attempting to break his balance. Over and over Mike attacked, and, without fail, the mysterious stranger shrugged off his advances, yet did not make his own. Waiting for the right moment, Carlisle mused. He was now thoroughly intrigued by this unexpected guest and was watching the fight almost leisurely. It had been years since Carlisle had seen anyone give Mike such a run for his money. _

_Finally, the moment for attack came. Mike had just thrown a particularly sloppy punch, missed, and left himself open for the strike. The stranger wasted no time. He dropped to his knees and swept his leg across the ground, sending Mike flat onto his back. He then pounced on top of the fallen man and continued his fisted assault on his face. It was not until the body beneath him lay unconscious, but breathing, that Edward stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and walked away without saying a word. _

"_Stop," Carlisle called quietly after him, keeping his eyes on the ground, deep in contemplation. "Who are you?"_

"_Don't worry about it, old man," the stranger replied gruffly. Though, upon closer consideration, Edward was not sure exactly how old the gentleman was. Though he was clearly dressed with status, he had a build not unlike Edward's own. The man's eyes were downcast, disallowing Edward any further examination. _

"_Just don't go headed down any dark alleys with the likes of him," Edward continued, preparing to leave. "I won't always be around to save your ass."_

_Edward once again began walking back towards the market place, when Carlisle called to him for the second time. _

"_Young man, wait. At least let me offer you some form of thanks."_

_At the prospect of a reward, possibly of the monetary persuasion, Edward turned to consider the gentleman before him. He could see his eyes now, a brilliant shade of green, and yet Edward was still no closer to guessing his age. Edward approached with trepidation. _

_As the gentleman fumbled in his jacket for a coin purse, he began to question Edward in an offhanded manner. _

"_Now tell me, son, where did you learn how to fight like that?"_

"_My father was a boxer. Made me come to the ring with him every weekend and watch him train. When I was old enough, I started training myself. Just came naturally by then, I guess. Took a real interest in the fight – not just the win, like my dad. Started going to the Asian end of town, looking for something different. Found it, learned it, worked it in."_

"_So you're trained in martial arts?"_

"_You could say that, I suppose. Learned more than a couple of forms that I can't pronounce, but could probably show you, if you want a go."_

_The man finally retrieved his elusive wallet and began to search through it. This boy couldn't be more than twenty, and yet just held his own against a trained assassin with no warm-up, not even so much as a warning. Hell, he didn't even take off that stupidly long leather coat of his. Carlisle continued to buy himself some time, rooting through his pocket change._

_Edward's eyes lit up at the sight of a wad of fifty pound notes, prime for the taking. He assessed the situation. The payoff would be huge, more than enough to keep him eating well and sleeping warm for two months, if not three. But he got a funny feeling from this man, that he was not one to be reckoned with. Edward decided; he would save the petty theft for later. _

_Carlisle noticed Edward's internal struggle and made a decision of his own: this was exactly who he was looking for. Obviously not a stranger to the streets, but clearly not uneducated. With a bit of training, he could be great. Carlisle had not seen agility or natural skill like that in years. In fact, he had thought that particular form of hapkido had just about died out here in London. This young man must have searched tremendously for an adequate coach. _

_A quick once-over confirmed what Carlisle already suspected – this boy was broke. His coat looked to be the only thing of value on him, and Carlisle seriously doubted that he had attained it through conventional means. Carlisle was taking a chance, yes, but if it worked out in his favor, this boy could be a very valuable addition to Carlisle's…organization. _

_Carlisle closed the coin purse with a snap and watched as Edward's face fell. _

"_I'll tell you what, boy, I'll do you one better. If I give you a twenty-pound note, you'll eat for what, a week? Hardly worth it."_

"_Actually, a week sounds pretty g-"_

"_But I give you a _job_, and I guarantee that within a year you'll have more money than you'll know what to do with."_

_Edward eyed the old man suspiciously. "A job?" This was beginning to sound like a trap. _

_As if reading his mind, Carlisle said, "No catch – on that, you have my word. But I need to know right now, before I further divulge any details. In or out."_

_There was a slight pause._

"_In."_

_Carlisle's face split into a grin. "Well done, you won't regret it. Now I do believe that I haven't yet introduced myself. You may call me Carlisle." He offered his hand to his newest employee. _

"_Edward. Cullen."_


	4. Big Dollhouse

**AN: Twilight belongs to Stephanie Meyer. **

* * *

Four years. Four bloody years ago he'd shaken Carlisle's hand and started living this life of depravity. Not that his existence was the epitome of morality to begin with, but he'd gone to church, at the very least.

Not any more, though. Sunday mornings were busy for him. He had to wait for people to come out from church.

This was his favorite time of the week to complete a job, if the word "favorite" could even be used. More like, "Least likely to cause extreme self-loathing." Sunday morning, just as the clock struck noon. He got to people just after they had made peace with their maker. It gave Edward a sense of calm, and allowed him to go through with what he was about to do.

Four years since he'd gotten his first list and stared at the names written on the paper. It had begun with just three – three people whose life's path he was going to dramatically alter in the span of a few minutes.

His first few jobs had been sloppy at best, but Carlisle had been patient with him. Carlisle became his mentor, coaching, teaching, and advising. If it had been anyone but Carlisle, Edward didn't think he would have survived very long in this particular field of work. Edward still remembered his first job, and how he had come within a hair's breadth of botching it up. How he had just stood there as Gregory Martin – he'd never forget that name – begged for his life, begged for some mercy, for just one last chance to go home to his

"…_three year old baby girl. Sh-she's just speaking now. Late bloomer, the doctor said, but she was just saving it, yknow? Wanted to take in as much of the world as possible before voicing any opinion on it. She's beautiful, see?"_

_Gregory reached for his back pocket, and Edward's grip on his revolver tightened. Gregory noticed this and immediately frozen. From his position on the floor, he looked up at Edward. _

"_It's just a picture," he whispered, words dripping with desperation. "I just…want you to see her."_

_Edward shut his eyes, trying to suppress the nausea he had been feeling for the past hour. It increased tenfold at the sight of this man, not yet thirty-five, on his knees, pleading with him to show a picture of the life that he and the woman he loved had created. _

_Lips pressed tightly together, Edward nodded his head, granting him permission. _

_Fumbling with his wallet, Gregory flipped through business cards and various other photos until he reached the one he sought. With a trembling hand, he held it out to Edward, and, against his better judgment, Edward took it. _

"_Stephania. Stephania Anne. My wife is Greek – Stephania was her grandmother's name."_

_Edward looked down at the photo and saw a beautiful little girl in front of a Christmas tree, arms wrapped around a present nearly as big as she was. Her chestnut hair was tied in pigtails, adorned with red ribbon that matched the trim on her festive dress. Her mouth was open, mid-laugh, displaying her first set of teeth that had just come in. Stephania. _

"_This is last Christmas?" Edward asked. _

"_Yes."_

"_What's in the present?"_

"_What?"_

_Edwared swallowed hard. "What's in the present she's holding? The big one. It's big."_

"_Oh – it's a dollhouse. Sh-she wanted a dollhouse last year."_

"_Has she outgrown it yet?"_

_"No, not yet."_

"_She will."_

"_I know," Gregory said solemnly, staring at the floor. He paused before adding, "I want to be there when she does. Please, man, please?" Gregory looked up at Edward once more. Damnit, why did he have to have a kid? Why did she have to be so goddamned beautiful? Edward bet Gregory's wife was gorgeous too, that she was homecoming queen in high school and a cheerleader in college. But she was smart, too. She was one of those classy broads who didn't go to university just for her MRS degree. She was probably a librarian or a school teacher or a – damnit, why him? What did he do? _

"_Listen buddy, you know I can't. It's my _job_. You have to underst - "_

_Gregory interrupted him, now hysterical, screaming through his violent sobs. _

"_She needs her daddy! Goddamnit, she needs me! And my wife, Kristina, she needs me too. She needs someone, she can't raise Stephania alone! I don't want her to be with anyone else, she's _my_ wife! I can't leave her alone. I can't force her to find someone else. I can't put them through this, don't you get it? Fuck you, man. FUCK YOU! Let me go home to my kid! Let me see my wife just one more time. Kill me tomorrow, I won't tell anyone, I swear. Just let me say goodbye. JUST LET ME SAY - "_

_Edward lowered the still-smoking gun to his side, and after a moment returned it to the holster inside his leather duster. Gregory Martin's figure lay spread-eagled on the office floor, unmoving. Dead. Edward had shot him in the heart. His family could have an open casket. _

_Edward tossed Gregory's wallet next to his motionless form and it landed open to Stephania's picture. This was the last straw for Edward; he turned around and emptied his stomach's contents into Gregory's wastebasket. After his body had expelled all it had, Edward dry heaved until he felt close to passing out. He gathered his wits, gathered the wastebasket, and walked out the door. No evidence, no crime. _

_Four years. Fuck. He deserved a gold watch. _

_***_

Edward dropped his chopsticks onto his half-empty plate with a clatter – there went his appetite. Solemnly, he stood up, tossed the newspaper carelessly onto the table, and made his way back to the kitchen. He placed the dish in the sink where his cleaning lady would be able to find it tomorrow morning. He hadn't done dishes in about seven years; four years since he had moved to the states, three years before that when he had neither plates nor food with which to soil them.

Shedding himself of his layers as he walked, Edward headed to the bedroom. He left his clothes where they fell; just another job for Marta in the morning. He flicked on the lights and took a moment to bask in the tidiness of his chamber. Everything from the standing lamps to the red satin sheets exuded style, and that was the way he liked it. He crossed the room to turn on his bedside lamp, then crossed back, hopping comically as he removed his socks, to flick off the main switch. Now down to just his pants, he ambled lazily to the bed and folded up a corner of the crisp, cold sheets. Perched on the edge of the bed he slid out of his pants – he disliked wearing underwear – and lay down with a sigh. Edward reached over, turned off the lamp, and slept the sleep of a very tired man.

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**AN: Please review, and let me know what you think. **


	5. Research

**AN: Stephanie Meyer owns all things Twilight. **

* * *

2:17. If Edward loved nothing else about his line of work, he loved the lenient hours. 2:17 in the afternoon was a damned good time to wake up, in his opinion.

Edward groaned, rolling over to face his picture windows, framed in red drapes to match the bed linen. The sun was warm on his face, and he allowed himself a small grin of pleasure as he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. His face fell a moment later, however, when he remembered what today had in store.

Begrudgingly, Edward hauled himself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, scratching at his chin along the way. Peter's ring hadn't left too deep a cut after all, so perhaps Edward would be able to shave tomorrow.

Twenty-five minutes later, Edward exited his bathroom still glistening with moisture from his life-giving shower, and wearing only a towel. He padded slowly, barefoot, into the kitchen, to see a fresh pot of coffee sitting on the stove.

"Bless you, Marta," Edward mumbled as he poured himself a cup.

Edward grabbed the stack of mail that Marta had brought up and arranged in a neat pile on his kitchen counter. This woman was like a fairy godmother – his apartment was always spotless, he always had fresh coffee, and he saw her only once a year, to give her her Christmas bonus.

Not wasting time with the paper, Edward selected a large manila envelope from amongst the pile. No postage, no return address – Carlisle had, of course, had it hand-delivered.

Taking his coffee and the envelope into the living room, Edward settled into his recliner, gearing up for some background research. He dumped the contents of the folder onto his towel-clad lap, and was surprised to find how little there was.

Usually Carlisle delivered several thick envelopes to his apartment, each containing the life history of a future mark. Hell, as Edward beat Peter Dossier to death, he wondered if Peter still remembered any lines from Romeo and Juliet, his ninth grade play. Carlisle didn't miss anything.

However, it looked like Bella Swan was an elusive target. There wasn't even a photograph paperclipped to the front page, as there almost always was. Regardless, Edward would take all the information he could get, and began to read Carlisle's file in earnest. It was rare that Carlisle would send Edward instructions regarding his work – he usually trusted Edward's intuition and skill when it came to how a job should be done. But Carlisle's message in this case was clear. It was written in red ink across the bottom of the last page of the package.

Don't fuck up.

"You don't say," Edward muttered sarcastically. Having completed his scan of the information, Edward now went back to absorb the details.

Though he himself had never heard of Isabella Swan, from what it looked like, this was a pretty high profile case. She had established quite a name for herself. Arizona, born and raised, danced at NYU for two years before going out on her own. After briefly headlining with a cabaret group, she was offered her own show, and had been performing cross-country ever since. This was the final leg of her tour: five shows in twelve days. It was also a homecoming of sorts, since New York had been her place of residence for a short time. Edward's job was simple: protect the girl without her being aware of his presence.

Protect her from what, he wondered. Edward flipped the page. Ah, her personal life. The juicy stuff.

Isabella – Bella, as she preferred, apparently – had been quite the free spirit in her college days, brief as they were. She had flunked out of any class that lacked a dance component. Though she shone vibrantly in every class that involved movement, it looked like dropping out had been a good decision. With such meager grades, it did not look like she would have been readmitted.

Bella had only had a few public relationships since making it big time; first with her manager – surprise surprise – but that ended when she fired him. Following that were a few minor affairs with B-list celebrities, and then a long dry spell that had continued until just recently. Rumor had it that Bella and her dance partner, Jacob Baronovski, were quite the item. In fact, just a short time ago, Jacob had been spotted on the Fifth Avenue, perusing jewelry shops for engagement rings.

Baronovski…the name sounded all too familiar.

A quick search through his file cabinet provided Edward with his answer. The Baronovskis were a very influential mafia family that could be traced back further than it was wise to question.

If the Baronovskis were so well-off, what was their eldest son doing marrying some dancer? Furthermore, what was he doing dancing himself when he could be – should be – getting ready to inherit the family business?

There were dangerous undertones to this job, which was perhaps why it was offered to Carlisle and his agency as opposed to a regular security outfit. Moreover, it explained why Edward's guardianship was to be kept on the down-low. Any additional muscle on the job would be looked at as insecurity on the Baronovskis' part, and reflect badly thereupon.

The job itself seemed straightforward: follow the bint to work, make sure she doesn't get killed while dancing, follow her home, and make sure she'd doesn't get killed while sleeping.

However, the lack of information on his mark – were they still a mark if you weren't killing them? – made Edward uneasy. What was in Isabella's past that not even Carlisle could find out?

The next twelve days will be interesting, Edward thought as he rose from the recliner, leaving his towel where it lay. With confidence, poise, and not a scrap of clothing on him, Edward strode to his room to dress for the day.

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**AN: I promise, Bella is coming! Maybe even in the next chapter... Please review!**


	6. Tiny Dancer

Dressed in his usual color of black – jeans and a dress shirt – Edward slipped on his leather jacket and headed out of his apartment, taking care to lock the door behind him. Exiting onto the street, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for his notebook, and flipped it open to the page upon which he had scrawled the address of the theatre Isabella Swan would be performing at. Instinctually heading to the curb to hail a taxi, Edward paused and dropped his arm when he realized that the venue was actually within walking distance.

"Maybe I'll get some sleep these next two weeks after all," he thought.

Six blocks later, the theatre came into view. La Corova, it was called. Edward scanned the building quickly before entering, taking notice of the faded paint and the aging woodwork. Yes, the theatre had seen better days, but there was something to be said about antiques.

The box office was closed, which worked in Edward's favor, but the doors to the lobby were closed as well, which did not. Edward briefly contemplated picking the lock, but decided to try around back before he resorted to breaking out his kit.

Circling around the building, Edward checked his watch. 4:03. Considering the show did not open until tomorrow night, it would be a pretty safe bet that the theatre would be vacant. Maybe he'd get lucky and could sneak in with a delivery company or behind a custodian.

The performers' door was locked, which was no surprise, but it seemed that the service door at the other end of the building was slightly ajar. After a quick assessment of the area, Edward decided that he might as well take the opportunity that had been lain before him, and so he quickly and quietly snuck over.

The service door was being propped open by a high-heeled shoe, of all things. Suppressing a chuckle, Edward slipped inside the building and guided the door closed behind him to rest once again on its four-inch black patent doorstop.

Once inside, he easily navigated his way around the backstage area. Edward strode past dressing rooms and offices, all of which were locked, and, by the sounds of it, empty. He continued down the narrow and winding corridor until the sound of a record scratching caused him to freeze.

Acting on impulse, Edward immediately flattened himself against the nearest wall, his black apparel allowing him to blend into the shadows with ease. Music now floated towards him – Tchaikovsky…Swan Lake, if he was not mistaken. After a few more moments of cautionary stillness, Edward broke away from the wall, and began heading towards the source of the music.

Louder now, Edward knew both that he was close to the source, and that he was, in fact, correct with his guess of Tchaikovsky. His mother had taken him to a performance of Swan Lake when he was young, too young to be able to fully admit how much he had enjoyed it. But because of the music, and the memories attached to it, it had remained one of his favorite ballets. It was being revived here in New York just in time for Christmas, and he had bought boxed seats months in advance. A professional assassin with an affinity for ballet. Edward could have laughed at his contradictory existence.

Sweeping back a heavy curtain, Edward found himself blinking as he stepped onto the wings of the stage. Making certain that he remained unseen, he crouched in a dark corner, allowing him both complete cover, and a perfect view of the stage.

The stage lights were on, but not to full capacity, and so Edward's eyes adjusted quickly to the brightness. Who would be in the space the day before opening night?

Probably just a janitor, he speculated, since he hadn't seen anyone during his inspection of the backstage area. Nothing to get wound up about.

Allowing himself a slight bit of freedom, Edward edged forwards towards the light to peek into the audience. Le Corova was a large theatre with a capacity of about five hundred; three hundred seats in the orchestra section and another two hundred up in the balcony. The walls and ceiling were gold, and intricately engraved with gothic designs. The seats were all a plush red velvet, creating a regal atmosphere. Walking through any of the sets of high double doors leading into the theatre was like stepping through a time warp to the classical era.

Footsteps tore Edward's attention away from the audience, and he quickly scrambled back into the darkness of the wings.

A petite woman stepped out onto the stage from the opposite wings, and she bent at the record player, which sat dead center, to restart the music.

She was dressed in a grey practice leotard with light pink tights – standard ballet uniform, from what Edward had read. She wore pointe shoes, and had her dark hair up in a bun, so Edward could not determine its length. She was beautiful, Edward thought, though a bit plain.

After stretching for a few moments, the dancer began to move about the stage. Despite her small stature – she couldn't have been more than 5'1 – she created beautiful long and fluid lines with her body.

Edward watched the girl (woman?) take a few turns around the stage, then slow to a stop as Dances of the Swans began to emanate from the record player. She began to move in a more rehearsed manner now, no longer improvising. The dance was still beautiful, but it struck Edward as…odd. If this was Isabella, the principle dancer of the entire company, why was she dancing the steps of an ensemble member, instead of The Sovereign Princess?

Edward's ruminations were interrupted by the entrance of another female, coming from the same direction that this petite dancer had herself.

"I thought I'd find you in here," The new arrival called to the dancer, who turned to smile. She stopped her footwork, and walked gracefully over to embrace the girl who had just stepped onto the stage.

"Only you would be crazy enough to prop open the back door with one of your heels, Alice," she said, as she released the dancer from the hug. "Do you mind if I join you on the stage?"

"I was just leaving, actually," Alice replied. "Just needed to test out my ankle after taking off the tensor bandage this morning."

"How is it?"

"Not bad," Alice said, lifting her left foot and turning it in slow circles. "It'll be nice to be back on my feet for the end of this tour. I'd never taken a fall like that before – I thought it was the end of my career!"

"It wasn't your fault, Alice. Who throws roses on stage _before_ the show is over?"

Alice giggled, "I guess." She reached up to release her hair from the severe bun in which it had been pulled. She shook out her locks to reveal a chin-length bob that was almost spiky at the ends. Certainly not of the current style, Edward noted. "Do you want me to leave the record on for you?" Alice asked, preparing to leave.

"No thanks, I brought my own," the girl smiled, holding up her tote sac.

Alice bounced over to the record player, removed the vinyl disc, placed it in a sleeve, and tucked it under her arm. Silence rang through the theatre now, as the girls embraced once more, this time in parting.

"Have a good rehearsal, this space is fantastic," Alice called over her shoulder, exiting into the wings.

"Thanks, Alice," the mystery girl said, as she began to unfasten the buttons on her coat. Edward could hear every word clearly now, without the music in the background. Not that he minded the underscoring by any means, but silence allowed him to pick up the minute nuances he may have missed before. He was prepared to leave, uninterested in watching yet another aspiring lead ballerina warm up, when Alice's voice floated back onto the stage, this time from a distance. Edward was thankful for the silence now, for without it he may not have heard the small girl's parting words.

"See you tomorrow, Bella!"

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**AN: It's been a while, I know. But I'm planning on posting another chapter tonight. If I get reviews/subscribers, I'll try to update on a more regular basis. Please, please, please, PLEASE tell me if you like this story! I need motivation to keep writing!**


	7. Dirty Dancing

**AN: Yes, it's back! After a super long, inexcusable hiatus, I'm picking this up again.  
**

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Suddenly on edge, Edward leaned in as far as the cover of darkness would allow, surveying Bella Swan. She was taller than the previous girl, Alice, but still not tall by standard measure. 5'5 at the most, Edward estimated, and that's if she wasn't wearing heels. Panning down her slender body as she shrugged off her coat, Edward was slightly surprised to find that she was wearing a pair of casual brown loafers. Loafers for a prima ballerina, Edward pondered, as she slipped out of them. Maybe her feet needed a break.

Bella dropped her coat to the ground where she stood, and her shoulder bag along with it. Edward's eyes were now drawn upward from her shoes once again, as her figure was now in full view. Long shapely legs wrapped in black silk stockings, which turned into her surprisingly curvy hips. Bella turned and bent at the waist to retrieve a record from her bag – curvy indeed, Edward appreciated. And here he thought all ballerinas were walking stick figures.

In her plain black leotard, Bella strode over to center stage in order to put on her record. Lost in her curves (her breasts, though restricted and concealed beneath her leotard, kept Edward's attention for more than a few seconds), Edward had still not gotten a good look at Bella's face. As she played with the record needle her long, chocolate brown hair that had just the slightest wave, fell in front of her face, hiding it completely. This frustrated Edward – the sooner he got a look at this girl, the sooner he could leave.

Still bent over the record player, Bella quickly swept her hair to the top of her head and secured it into a ponytail with an elastic that came from around her wrist. Finally, Edward thought.

The suddenness of Bella's movement and the simultaneous commencement of the music almost caused Edward to tumble from his perch in shock. She flipped her hair and straightened her back at the exact moment of the first note of her chosen song, as if she had danced to this record all too many times before, knowing just when to start.

It took three chords for Edward to regain his composure, and just four more for him to lose it again. Not only was Isabella Swan perhaps the most stunning natural beauty he had ever seen, but she was dancing to Clair de Lune. Transfixed, Edward's eyes followed Bella around the stage, eager to drink in her newly revealed facial features. Her skin was like ivory – flawless, with a soft luminescence. She had deep brown eyes, free from the makeup with which the girls of the day were all too liberal. High cheekbones turned into a strong jaw, which framed the most perfect, tiny, rosy pout. Edward couldn't stop staring at those lips, even as Bella slowly paced barefoot around the stage into time with the music.

A beautiful girl, he could handle. But why, why the song.

Bella's movements were light, yet measured. Unlike Alice's dance en pointe, Bella's barefoot ministrations were less technical and more exploratory. She was grounding herself in the space, feeling her way around the stage, establishing her connection with the floor and the walls and the lights.

As the music quickened, so did Bella's movements. They were less ballet now, and more primal. She threw herself with wild abandon into aerial pirouettes and grounded rolls – moves that would normally only be seen at a figure skating rink or at a dojo. She was never loud, however, despite the ferocity with which she flung her body around on the stage. Every roll, every jump was executed with almost inhuman grace. As the song entered the arpeggio section, Bella's dance grew fiercer, until a silent moment, a retard in the song, in which Bella balanced in a perfect handstand.

Edward watched with baited breath. What would come next? He had never seen anyone dance like this before, never in all his years as a fan of the ballet. The only time he had ever seen _anyone_ move with such fluidity and strength was in a fight between two trained assassins – the skill was omnipresent, but the passion and ferocity, that only came when fear was introduced. In the case of the fights Edward had seen, this had been the fear of death. How could Bella dance like this in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday? What was it that she feared?

Before Edward could be granted more of the private spectacle, a booming, unapologetic voice rang out from the opposite wings.

"BELLA!"

The call must have shocked Bella, for she tumbled out of her handstand in anything but a graceful manner. Landing quite heavily on her rear end, she whipped her head around to see who had encroached on her private rehearsal.

A tall, sturdy man in a suit walked briskly onto the stage and halted the record.

"Bella, you know you're not just supposed to take off from the hotel without security."

"Sam, I'm a grown woman, I don't need a babysitter."

Though agitated, Bella's voice was music on its own, filling the space that Debussy had a moment earlier.

"Bella, honey, you know it's not safe. This is New York City-"

"Don't 'honey' me, Sam. And I know that it's New York, I lived here for two years."

Sam took a deep, steadying breath. "It's just that Jacob…he worries. You know that hon- er, Bella." He walked over to pick up her coat and bag. "Now come on, back to the hotel. Your fiancé has a very important dinner with the mayor tonight, and he'd like you to look your best. There's a new dress waiting for you on the bed."

Begrudgingly, Bella wrenched herself up from the floor, massaging her backside before allowing Sam to help her slip into her coat.

"He's not my fiancé."

"Oh, he will be soon!" Sam trilled in a sing-song voice as Bella hopped alongside him, trying to put her shoes on while walking. "Any day now."

As they exited the stage area, Edward could just barely make out Bella muttering, "Yeah, any day."

He waited until he heard the sound of the back door to the theatre slam shut on its metal frame, then exhaled deeply while stretching his limbs. He had been crouching in the darkness for only a half hour, but it felt like an eternity. Watching Bella dance, he had lost all track of time, all sense of his mission. His first encounter with Bella Swan, and all he had gained from it was an erection.

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**AN: Please, please, please, PLEASE - I need feedback now more than ever before. Should I return to this story? I have another chapter on the go, but I really need to know that there is interest out there. One word reviews, guest reviews, negative reviews, any any anything, just let me know you're reading. (Also, reviewers might get a treat. And by treat, I mean sneak preview of the next chapter!)**


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